"The only one you'll affect by exposing what's in that folder is them," I said.
His eyes narrowed, and he twitched so violently he almost dropped the gun. Jaysus Christ. "You don't care that the world knows what you did?"
"Not really," I lied. But I'd always been a better poker player than him. And he was too far gone to remember that.
Rage contorted his features. "There's information on the mob in here!" he yelled.
"Only on low-level players who have long since moved on," I said. This was the truth. I shrugged, a slow movement using only one shoulder. I didn't want to startle him. "There's nothing in there, Stuart. Nothing I care about. You can go print every piece of information in the New York Times tomorrow, and it won't matter to me."
"You're lying," he choked out, but I heard the doubt in his voice. His arm was shaking, and I saw his finger tightening on the trigger. Please don't make me do this, Stuart. God, please don't make me do this. "You're fucking lying, you motherfucking liar."
"I'm not lying," I said as calmly as I could. "I can help you, though. I won't let you blackmail me. But I'll help you. Put down the gun, and I'll get you the help you need."
"Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou!" he screamed, waving the gun at me, and panting as if he was having trouble catching his breath.
He suddenly seemed to calm, chilling me even more and causing my heart to gallop. "I hate you," he said, and that's when he stilled completely, pointing the gun at my head.
They say in moments of high stress your life passes before you in slow motion. But it’s also the events of that moment. I saw his gaze shift to his gun and the brief glance back up at me. I felt my arm raise. I felt something graze the top of my shoulder. I felt the jolting kickback as I fired. I saw blood. Stuart’s eyes widening in shock. I heard a gun drop to the ground. Maybe his. Maybe mine. I saw Stuart slump in the chair and fall to the floor of my office. I saw death.
**********
I was at the police station for hours, telling the same story over and over. Finally at three a.m., they released me, a clear case of self-defense.
The evidence that Stuart had broken and entered into my place of business was clear in the broken glass on the floor of the front room, the same glass stuck in the bottom of his shoes, and embedded in the skin of his fist. He'd punched through the glass with his bare hand. It would take time for the autopsy results to come back, but I suspected they'd find high amounts of drugs and alcohol in his system. Add to that the fact he'd fired at me first with a stolen gun and there would be no charges against me.
I'd told the police I'd recently taken over De Havilland Enterprises in a deal Stuart was still bitter about. It was enough of a motive. Of course, I'd picked up the bloodstained folder and put it in my safe in the back room before I'd called the police. I'd burn it once I had the chance. It now represented not my salvation, but my utter self-destruction.
I felt numb as I walked out of the room I'd been in since I'd called the police last night. Fionn stood up from across the station, causing the first pulse of emotion to move through my chest since I'd dialed 911. Mo chara. My friend. He moved toward me just as Lydia walked out of another room. She froze when she saw me, her eyes large and shocked, bloodshot. She'd been crying. My heart plummeted. Oh God, Lydia. I immediately went to move toward her, to take her in my arms, to offer what comfort I could.
She watched me approach, her mouth open slightly, her head shaking back and forth as if to say what? No, don't let this be true? "No," she choked out. "No, don't come near me."
Her words felt like a physical blow and I stumbled, wincing. "Lydia," I breathed. "Please. I didn't want to. Please listen to me. I never would have—"
She hit me, pounding her fists into my chest. Her expression seemed to collapse in horror. "No!" she screamed, striking me harder. "No, no, no!" Her head shook from side to side as if in denial. "How could you? How could you?"
"Lydia!" I choked, trying to contain her, trying to wrap my arms around her. "Le do thoil. Is breá liom tú."
"You did this on purpose," she sobbed, her eyes pools of stark pain and bright blue, not even a hint of green. "He said you would. Oh God, oh God, oh my God." Her legs buckled. The police officer, who had been leading her out of the room, caught her from the side as she punched at me again. "I'll never forgive you!" she cried, her beautiful face a picture of misery, her loud sobs echoing through the mostly empty room. "Never!" She collapsed against the officer and Fionn gripped my arm.
"Not here, mo chara," he said. "Let her be for now."
"No, Fionn!" I said, panicked, sick, reaching for Lydia.
The police officer supporting her led her away, throwing one scathing look over his shoulder as the last piece of my world seemed to drop out from beneath me. Mo Chroí.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Lydia
Stuart’s gone. I’m alone. Completely alone.
It’s done.
He’s done what he set out to do.
Desolated me.
**********
"Hey, honey," Daisy said softly, handing me a cup of coffee. I glanced up at her, breaking away from my thoughts.
"Morning." My smile felt small and weak. Outside the window, the sun was already shining brightly, the trees rustling with bird play. It was supposed to be in the eighties—a gorgeous late August day. God, where had the summer gone? Seemingly swallowed up in a haze of misery and grief.